


Something Your Soul Needs

by vands88



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: 2x06: And The Abyss Gazes Back, Episode Related, F/M, Gen, POV Abbie, Purgatory, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2014-10-28
Packaged: 2018-02-23 00:43:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2527682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vands88/pseuds/vands88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The last episode gave me feels, I just had to get something down. Also, it accidentally ended up being about purgatory. Unbeta'd. I'm mostly worried I've made canon mistakes because my memory is dreadful (like, I couldn't remember if we've seen Ichabod drink before?) so if we can all pretend that it was 100% intentional and essential to the story that would be awesome. ;-) Thanks!</p>
    </blockquote>





	Something Your Soul Needs

**Author's Note:**

> The last episode gave me feels, I just had to get something down. Also, it accidentally ended up being about purgatory. Unbeta'd. I'm mostly worried I've made canon mistakes because my memory is dreadful (like, I couldn't remember if we've seen Ichabod drink before?) so if we can all pretend that it was 100% intentional and essential to the story that would be awesome. ;-) Thanks!

“Okay,” Abbie says, literally throwing the towel in, “Yoga doesn’t make you feel any better.”

Ichabod catches the towel with the same practised ease that he’s been catching everything that’s been thrown at him - cars, taxes, his son being the Horseman of War… Ichabod’s become a master at pretending; hiding his concerns with overly zealous rants about small things like baseball caps and inkwells. She used to think they were genuine, or at least for his benefit, and maybe they were at first, but now she understands he does it to amuse her, and to assure her at the same time, that he’s doing okay. She can still see the cracks in the façade though.

She tilts her head to the side, as she always does when trying to understand him. She’s finally got him to admit his pain, and that’s a victory in itself, but she doesn’t know how to help; what a man like him needs to make him feel better. “What will?” she asks.

A small, cheeky smile appears on Ichabod’s face, and from experience, Abbie knows it means trouble. It’s the sort of smile that appears when he has a crafty idea, about experimenting with the television, or an ingenious way to behead a monster. And for a moment, when his eyes twinkle with a mischievous glint, she thinks, _Is this how he would look?_ If Ichabod turned his curious mind to her instead of electronics, would she have fingernail marks on the bedframe rather than broken pixels on the TV?

Her breath catches and heat flares under her skin in a way that is much more than can be attributed to her workout.

He’s still looking at her, and in that moment, she can believe it; that the attraction goes both ways; that he will have read the advice column of a magazine someplace and took it for fact and recite a speech about sex and endorphins before he strides over to her, takes her hands, pulls her up from her yoga mat into his arms, and kisses her like the world is falling...

The lust is driven away by the guilt, as it is every time she thinks such things. The world is falling, for him, at least, while his wife remains trapped with the Horseman of Death. Ichabod may currently resent Katrina for keeping secrets, but he loves her, of that Abbie is sure, and she will not come between them. _It’s just a crush_ , she reassures herself, yet again. She does not love him. But she has held his hand at the gates of purgatory, staring into the abyss, and she knows that whatever he asks of her now, she will give him.

“There is something that might bring me some relief,” he says, still with that cheeky smile.

If it were anyone else, Abbie would think it was an innuendo. She would think they were mocking her for her infatuation. But not from Ichabod, never from him. When they returned from purgatory, she could not sleep well for weeks, worrying about his confrontation over her manifested desires in that cruel place, but he never said a thing. He still hasn’t, but he must know by now, he _must_.

Ichabod continues, “There is a tradition here, I believe, called ‘drowning your sorrows’ that might be worth investigating.”

Abbie laughs, “You want alcohol?”

He nods stiffly, as if he doesn’t want to admit such a weakness out loud.

“Okay, sure,” she says, rising from her position on the floor. “Just tell me you’ve had a drink since 1781.”

His stubborn refusal to answer is answer enough. Abbie rolls her eyes and resigns herself to hearing about the pitfalls of modern beer and 18th century brewing practices.

 

 

She insists on driving. Ichabod may be learning but she doesn’t trust him to stay focused today. He doesn’t fight her on it.

She knows an old-fashioned bar a little further out of town that they can go to; one with wooden benches and wall lamps. He’ll like it. It’s nominally an Irish bar but no doubt Ichabod will find fault in its authenticity. She finds herself smiling a little at the thought of his reaction.

It’s dusk and the street lights are coming on as they drive through town. They say nothing in the car, the radio is off, and Ichabod is staring out of the window with glazed eyes. Abbie doesn’t know where he has gone in his mind, but he’ll tell her when he’s ready. They break at a light and Abbie watches as a young couple cross the road in front of them. They’re huddled close to one another, the man whispering something in the woman’s ear that she laughs at, the woman moving to clasp his hand. They look so happy. Carefree.

It echoes in her a memory from purgatory. A fantasy of her and Ichabod walking down a beach together. She remembers the scratch of his beard on her cheek as he whispered to her and the warmth of him pressed against her. She remembers the blustery wind and blinking sand out of her eyes. It all felt so real. Until he asked her to drink the water, and she remembered.

Ichabod sighs beside her, and she follows his eyeline to the couple.

“We’ll get Katrina back,” Abbie says.

He doesn’t seem reassured though, if anything, the frown on his face only deepens. He only nods, and turns back to face the window.

The light turns green, and they continue on their journey.

 

 

Their evening doesn’t go as planned, and it isn’t until a couple of days later, when Joe Corbin has returned to himself and Ichabod has discovered video games, that Abbie has time to reflect.

She is slouched on the couch, with take-out sprawled on the coffee table in front of them, as Ichabod plays on the laptop beside her. He doesn’t seem to be concentrating on the action on screen, his eyes are as unfocused as they were that night on the way to the bar. He’s lost in thought, and Abbie knows what about.

He wants to save Henry. Get to him somehow. Abbie _knows_ that Henry is past saving. She’s seen the madness in his eyes, and she’s been a police officer for long enough that she can tell when the goodness of someone’s heart has long since corroded. But she also knows that convincing a father not to go after his son is futile.

Ichabod will go, and she will go with him, as she has so many times before. He would do the same for her. God knows if something happened to Jenny, and everyone thought she was past saving, Abbie would still be fighting for her. Abbie left her sister once and will never do so again. Ichabod must feel a similar sense of guilt, for not being there for Henry. She understands.

She’ll let him think, and when he’s ready, he’ll tell her.

  
  


She must have fallen asleep on the couch at some point because now she is blinking awake to gentle hands on her shoulders.

She feels warm and can smell Ichabod nearby. Is she back in purgatory? Any moment now the fantasy will break. She doesn’t want it to break. She’s happy here.

She sleepily reaches to touch the hand on her shoulder, keeping it there, indulging in the warmth that spreads through her at the touch. She sighs happily, and his thumb shakily strokes her neck, so gently, it’s almost a ghost. This is how it always starts. He’s always so cautious.

It feels like it’s been so long since anyone touched her like this. She never knows if these small intimate moments she has with Ichabod are with him at all, or only in her mind. Everything is a fabricated reality here, she can’t be sure of anything, but she hopes he’s real. She hopes she’s not that only one that falls to temptation in this place, as selfish as that may seem. It’s only a thumb on her neck but it’s so loving, so tender, it breaks her heart. She wants to keep this perfect fictitious moment for ever.

 _Stay here_ , she begs.

And then she falls back to sleep.

  
  


The second time she wakes, it’s to darkness, and this time she’s fully aware. The blanket Ichabod had placed over her slips off as she sits up on the couch. She turns and sees Ichabod standing at the window, silhouetted from the lamp outside. Her heart is beating so loud from the shock of seeing him and the fear of what she did, that she can feel every thump of the organ vibrate in her chest.

His voice is a whisper, barely a decibel above the drizzling rain. “I’ve kept things from Katrina too,” he says, picking up their conversation from days ago. “I have no right to be so angry with her, when she doesn’t know...“

Abbie steps closer towards him. His back is still towards her, but she can see his reflection in the window. She doesn’t know if the moisture reflected on his face is from tears or rain. She wonders how long he has been standing here, torturing himself with his thoughts.

His eyes in the reflection close and another droplet of water spills. “When she doesn’t know,” he repeats through gritted teeth, “what I did in purgatory.”

Abbie’s breath catches in her throat. Not once have they spoken of it. Why now?

“As you know, there were temptations - “

“Then they weren’t real,” Abbie interrupts. She has had the same argument with herself countless times.

“You don’t know that.”

“No,” Abbie says shakily. “No, I don’t. I didn’t know what was real most of the time, but, Crane, you’re a good person and I know you wouldn’t - ”

He scoffs at that.

“Look,” Abbie reasons, “I’m sorry if this is because of what I did earlier, I was half-asleep and if you’re feeling guilty then - “

“It’s not your fault, Lieutenant. It is mine alone.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

He looks at her quizzically.

Abbie tilts her head back and exhales, trying to decide how to handle this. What’s a polite way to tell a man you’re in love with him but don’t want to act on it? How to even talk about what happened in purgatory at all? She comes back to herself, to find Ichabod watching her out the corner of his eye. “I did some things I’m not proud of too,” Abbie admits.

Ichabod turns away from the window enough to look at Abbie. His eyes study her for a minute. He watches her more than any other man ever has. Intensely and frequently, and every time she still burns under his gaze. “But we can’t control what we want,” he says.

“No, we can’t,” she agrees.

They hold each other’s gaze and Abbie finally understands:

He does feel the same way. He fell prey to purgatory’s tricks just like she did. And he also feels guilty for kisses he doesn’t even know are real.

Was any of it real? Did they share any fantasies together? Abbie remembers what he tastes like, but she will never know if it was crafted by Moloch, or her imaginings, or whether she actually has felt those lips against hers.

Ichabod called yoga “torture” earlier, and it’s strange to think he uses the word so casually when they have been through so many trials together. Maybe it was another attempt to make light of their situation; to cover the cracks any way he can, like he does with his rantings and enthusiasm. His wife has been taken from him, his son has been lost to evil, and he is fighting a war against Moloch and his armies, but he feels guilty for so much of it. He must be breaking apart, but Abbie knows that nothing seems as dire if there is someone by your side.

“We’re gonna be okay, Crane.”

He smiles sadly at her, and takes her hand. “Of that, Lieutenant, I have no doubt.”

She takes the small comfort for what it is and they watch the rain drizzle against the window pane until the first rays of light breech the sky.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, folks! If you want to stalk me on tumblr I'm http://vands88.tumblr.com/ and hopefully the next time you see me it'll be with the 'In The Flesh' fic that I was meant to write before this one took over. Heh.


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